Neutrino Drag Read online

  Spacedog hopped into his car and picked up a stretchy helmet like a thick bathing cap. The cordless device was studded with shiny contacts on the inside—contacts that matched the bumps on his head. He snugged the helmet on, and suddenly disappeared from view: the mysterious car doors had rematerialized out of nowhere.

  Quiet as smoke, the Flash Gordon car wheeled off then as the crowd parted for it, angling across the lake bed toward the Christmas Tree lights that marked the starting line. By the time all the spectators were properly arrayed, Joaquin had pulled up in his own car.

  Joaquin hazed his hides while getting into position, sending up smoke from his tires and exhausting mind-blowing billows of nitro fumes. Very cool and intimidating. But Spacedog, invisible behind his smoked glass, didn't choose to play up his own engine power at all.

  The lights worked down to green, and the cars were off.

  Spacedog crossed the finish line before Joaquin had covered a third of the distance. Nobody even got Spacedog's elapsed time. The guys with the stopwatches just couldn't react fast enough.

  Joaquin came to a stop halfway down the track in an admission of total defeat I had never seen before.

  I turned my head to gauge the reaction of Stella, standing close by my side.

  Although she continued to smile, the starry-eyed woman showed no extra emotion, as if the outcome had never been in doubt. She just radiated a kind of animal acceptance of whatever ocurred.

  Within the next minute, the two drivers had returned to the starting line. Spacedog disappeared his door and emerged from his car.

  "Victory! Spacedog über todo! More race! More race!"

  Well, that was a challenge none of us could refuse.

  Over the rest of that afternoon, as the sun sank and reddened, we threw everything we had against Spacedog and his supercar. Or, to use the nickname that the crowd was now chanting, "UFO! UFO!" Useless, all useless, like lobbing softballs to Micky Mantle.

  When it was my turn to pit El Tigre against the UFO, my heart was in my throat, despite the certainty of failure. What if by some fluke I was the one to beat him? What would Stella—I mean, Herminia—think of that?

  Needless to say, I didn't beat him.

  Finally, after Spacedog had whipped our collective ass six ways from San Diego, we called it a day and broke out the cerveza. Spacedog made a funny face when he first tasted the beer, as if he had never encountered such a drink before. But soon he was downing cans of Blatz like a soldier just home from Korea.

  After suitable lubrication, Joaquin broached the question uppermost in all our minds.

  "What's that car run on, 'dog?"

  "Neutrinos."

  "You mean nitro?"

  "Yes, nitro. Excuse tongue of inadvertent falsity, please."

  Joaquin pondered that revelation for a while, then said, "Custom engine?"

  "Spacedog himself engine grow."

  We all had a laugh over that, and quit pestering Spacedog. We all figured we'd have a good long look at his engine before too long.

  Especially once we had made him the newest member of the Bean Bandits, a solemn ceremony we duly enacted a half hour later.

  One arm around Stella's wasp waist, Spacedog raised his beer in a toast when we were done.

  "Liquid token of future conquests hoisted! Leguminous reivers hegemony established is!"

  We all cheered, though we weren't quite sure what we were endorsing.

  · · · · ·

  Well, the exploits of the Bean Bandits during the next few months of that long-ago year of 1951 should have been engraved in gold for future generations. But instead, hardly any records were kept. That was just how we thought and how we did—or didn't do—things in those days. Who had time to write stuff down or even snap a few pictures? There was always another tire to change or mill to rebore. Nobody knew that the kicks we were having would someday become the stuff of legend. We just lived for the moment, for the roar of the engines and the satisfaction of leaving your opponents in the dust.

  So that's why, search until you're blue, you won't find any pictures of Spacedog and his four-wheeled UFO. Which is not to say you can't get a lot of the surviving oldtimers to talk about him. Nobody who was around then is likely to have forgetten the scorched path he cut through the California racing world. Anybody who ever saw that car of his soundlessly accelerate faster'n a Soviet MIG would never forget their jaw-dropping reaction.

  Up and down the state, we raced against a dozen clubs and blew all their doors off. The Bandits had been hot shit before Spacedog, but now we were unbeatable. Soon, we knew, we'd have to go further afield for competition. Out to Bonneville Flats first probably, then off to some of the prestige Southern tracks. (Though how a bunch of beaners would fare down in the Jim Crow South was something we hadn't considered.)

  Everybody in the club was ecstatic, especially Joaquin. To be on top of the racing world, that was all he had ever wanted. It didn't matter that he wasn't personally behind the wheel of the top car. As long as Spacedog was a bona fide Bean Bandit, Joaquin could bask in the shared glory.

  As for Spacedog himself, I've never seen anyone so hepped-up all the time. You'd think he was earning a million dollars per win. I remember one time after we won every heat against a crew from Long Beach, Spacedog drank twelve cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and stood atop the roof of his car reciting some kind of Etruscan poetry that sounded like a vacuum cleaner fighting against ten coyotes and losing.

  And me, I felt pretty good too. But in my case, it wasn't the racing that made me happy. It was having Stella Star Eyes hanging on my arm.

  I never knew whether Spacedog really wanted me personally to watch his girl, or if my good fortune was just an arbitrary thing. Did he pick me for some special reason, like because I was the oldest, most responsible-seeming guy in the Bandits, with a steady girl of his own? Or would the privilege and duty of minding Stella during the races have gone to any guy who Spacedog happened to meet first?

  This question bothered me a little from time to time, but mostly got lost in the sensual overload whenever I was side by side with Stella. Race after race I squired her around, fetching her drinks, finding her the best vantage for viewing Spacedog's triumphs. Standing within inches of her, I became lost in the heavenly geography of her knockout body, my mind turning all hazy with dreamy lust. Something about her silence magnified the sheer animal attraction of her incredible physique. Whenever it came time for me to climb into El Tigre and run my own races, I had to practically tear myself away from her.

  It was difficult, but for all those months I never acted on my desires. The code said not to steal the girl of another Bandit. And if Stella was feeling anything for me, I never saw any evidence of such feelings.

  Stella was always polite and aboveboard. She never gave me any come-ons or randy signals, never flirted or teased. Her lack of speech of course had lots to do with maintenance of her proper behavior, as well as mine. Kind of hard to hit on someone if they can't answer your pickup line. But of course words aren't everything, or even the main thing in such matters, and I was pretty sure even by her body language that she felt entirely neutral toward me.

  As for Herminia—well, things had cooled off considerably between us. She didn't come to meets anymore, and we only saw each other about once a week, usually for a movie and a burger and a kiss goodnight at her doorstep. Her cousin Carlos asked me what was wrong between us, and I couldn't really explain. Hell, it wasn't like I was even cheating on her. I was just keeping the foreign girlfriend of one of my fellow clubmembers company during the time he was busy racing.

  I don't know how long I would have gone on in this crazy white knight, blue balls way without making a play for Stella. But matters were taken out of my control one day when something really quite simple happened.

  Spacedog's UFO ran out of fuel.

  · · · · ·

  All the Bean Bandits had traveled out to Paradise Mesa for a race against some guys from Bakersfield. Spacedog and
Stella were slated to arrive separately from the rest of us. From what we could learn from the secretive, twisty-talking, green-faced Bandit, he and Stella didn't live in San Diego proper, but somewhere on its outskirts. Where, exactly, no one ever had learned. That was just one of the lesser mysteries surrounding Spacedog and his woman. But because we wanted to respect and humor our winningest member, we didn't push it.

  The sleek UFO hummed through the gates on its golden tires. All the Bandits and the hometown crowd raised a rousing cheer at the sight of the unbeatable dragster, and a shiver of despair passed like a chill breeze through the Bakersfield boys.

  But then the unexpected happened. The miracle car that had never even burped or stuttered before seemed to ripple and shimmer in a wave of unreality, as if plunged into an oven made of mirrors. Then it rolled feebly to a halt halfway to the starting line.

  The doors did their vanishing trick, and Spacedog hurtled out, followed more calmly by Stella. The man's face beneath his omnipresent sunglasses and rubber helmet was two shades greener than normal, and he clutched in his hands a black cylinder a little bigger than a beer can. He hustled toward us, yelling wildly in Etruscan. As he came close, I could see that the cylinder had a hairline crack running jaggedly down its length.

  Spacedog got a hold of himself enough to switch to his peculiar brand of English.

  "Cataclysmic tertiary release! Subatomic bombardment! Unprecedented, anomalous, undetected! All fuel lost! How Spacedog race now?!? Racing Spacedog's life is!"

  We had never actually got a chance to inspect Spacedog's engine all these months. One thing or another always intervened, and he seemed reluctant to give us a look. Another matter we didn't push. This sight of this tiny removable fuel chamber was the most detail we had gotten so far about the workings of his supercar.

  Joaquin clapped a comradely arm around Spacedog, little young guy acting like a father to the older, bigger man. "Calm down, calm down, chico! Let me see that."

  Spacedog hopelessly tendered the cylinder to Joaquin, who inspected it and glibly said, "Hell, we'll have this crack welded in a few seconds, then we'll refill it with nitro. Where's the intake valve?"

  Looking as if he wanted to tear out his nonexistent hair, Spacedog wailed, "Nitro, nitro! Your nitro not my fuel is! Not nitro, neutrinos! All those once handily contained now blasted spherically above and through your planet and racing away toward Oort Cloud."

  Nobody knew what the hell he was talking about. Joaquin persisted anyhow.

  "Suppose we weld this here chamber—"

  "Noncoherent heat to fix eleven-dimensional gravitic storage modulator? Why not just big rock apply!"

  "No need to get huffy, 'dog. Don't you have a spare?"

  Spacedog instantly went placid, faster than any normal person would've. "Verdad! Mais oui! Back at mother—Back home! Fully charged with particles of powertude!"

  "No problem then. We'll just have someone drive you there to pick it up, and you'll be back to racing before you can say 'Jack the Bear.' "

  "Nein! Spacedog alone must go. No accompaniment needed or possible. Perimeters of defensive illusion not breached must be!"

  "Oh … kay. Who has a street machine they can lend Spacedog?"

  "He can take El Tigre." The words were out of my mouth before I knew they were coming.

  "Oblong! Mi companero! Spacedog your primitive pride and joy will kindly treat. Back in the shortest span!"

  Joaquin shook my hand and said, "Thanks, Papa Obie. I know you don't let just anyone drive your buggy. But we need Spacedog to win today."

  "Sure. No sweat." I followed Spacedog toward my car and handed him the keys. He slipped easily behind the wheel, toyed with the shift and the pedals, then cranked the engine.

  "You sure you're good with driving this kind of car? It doesn't work by helmet, you know …."

  "Downloading scripts even as we speak. Finished! Haptic prompts all in place! Adios, mon frère!"

  He roared off then in a cloud of dust, faster than Korean Commies retreating before MacArthur's troops.

  When the air cleared, I saw Stella left alone in the crowd.

  I hurried to her side.

  I don't think Spacedog meant to leave her behind. In fact, in retrospect I know he didn't. But he was just so jazzed about racing that he forgot all about his woman. It's an oversight not a few hotrodders have made.

  Stella was showing more emotion than I had ever seen her display before, but unfortunately it wasn't the good kind. Her usual smile had been replaced by a fretful grimace. She was kind of twitchy all over, and her jagged unnatural pupils were changing shape and size like the neon chaser lights at Googie's.

  "Hey, Stella, what's the matter? Don't worry, the old Spacedog will be back soon. And he actually looked like he knew how to drive my car, so he probably won't get in no accidents. Don't worry about nothing. You need a drink? Come with me and we'll grab a couple of cold sodas."

  I walked the jittery woman over to where I knew a cooler of drinks waited, on the far side of one of the car trailers. The races had already begun, and everybody who wasn't tinkering with their machines or driving was busy watching. Stella and I were totally alone for the first time since we had met, and Spacedog was accelerating away from us.

  I bent over, fishing for two bottles of pop from the cracked ice. "You like grapefruit? All I see here is Squirt." When I straightened up with the drinks and turned to face Stella, I nearly died.

  She still wore her blue angora sweater, but she had stripped off her pants. Her bush blazed as platinum as her hairdo.

  Now she lunged at the waistband of my trousers, and I dropped both bottles to fend her off.

  "Stella, no! We can't! Not here!"

  She wouldn't listen. Her hands fastened on my pants and popped the top button. The sound of my zipper unladdering sounded louder to me than the engines a few hundred yards away.

  Stella leaped up and wrapped her legs around my waist, and suddenly there was no more possibility of resistance. I was harder than Egyptian algebra, all the stifled lust of several months coming to a head.

  I grabbed her boobs as she wriggled her pelvis to fit me into her wet heat, and despite my enthusiasm and hers I nearly wilted.

  That was no sweater Stella always wore. Her torso was covered in blue fur. I had twin handfuls of shaggy tit, like grabbing a combination of Lily St. Cyr and Lambchop.

  But underneath the short fur they were still the most incredible boobs I had ever handled.

  I pivoted around to brace Stella's back against the side of the trailer, and in less time than it takes to tell we finished the hottest, wildest, most surprising knee-trembler I had ever dared to imagine. She never made a sound the whole while.

  No one caught us. When it was over and I had stopped panting, we dressed again and rejoined the crowd.

  Spacedog returned from his mission in under an hour. With the replacement fuel source installed in his car, he rejoined the field and proceeded to whomp Bakersfield ass.

  Finally, around sunset, he came triumphantly to where Stella and I waited for him. But as soon as he got within a few feet of us, Spacedog somehow knew. He threw his arms toward the sky and wailed.

  "Ruined! Polluted! The imprinting of my gyno-symbiote all shattered! Now either Oblong or Spacedog must die!"

  · · · · ·

  Behind the wheel of El Tigre, heading south out of San Diego toward Ensenada in early darkness, following the tail-lights of Spacedog's sleek UFO down the highway, I felt a crazy mess of emotions. Shame, fear, pride, anger, happiness—I could hardly begin to sort out my feelings. Sure I had betrayed a friend. But I hadn't made the first move. His girl had jumped my bones. And what a jumping! But was she responsible for her own actions? Was Stella simple-minded? Had I taken advantage of a beautiful moron? And what part of Italy grew girls with blue fur and starry eyes?

  I tried to dismiss all these confusing questions by concentrating on the road. I didn't know where we were going, but I was honor-bound t
o go there.

  Back at Paradise Mesa, the Bean Bandits had held an impromptu court to decide how the affair between me and Spacedog would play out. (I confessed everything up front. Stella, natch, stayed silent through the whole debate.) Spacedog, as the affronted party, had gotten to call the tune.

  "I this cabron challenge! Cosmic Chicken the trial!"

  Joaquin wore a sad and solemn look. "I don't know about that, 'dog. Playing chicken usually ends up with someone getting killed. We don't want any heat from the cops. That would spell the end of the Bandits."

  "No worry. Not here ritual of the Chicken enacted. Distant place, only Oblong and Spacedog present, no witnesses."

  "Well, whatever's gotta be." Joaquin gripped both our hands. "May the best Bandit win."

  I didn't relish playing Chicken with Spacedog, especially at night. But I owed him something for my betrayal of his trust, and this was the method of payment he had chosen.

  Halfway to Ensenada, in the middle of nowhere without a sign of civilization around, Spacedog flipped on his turn signal, then pulled a left offroad. His headlights, then mine, illuminated an empty field.

  Empty for the first second or two of our arrival. Then a giant lighted hatch opened in mid-air about twenty feet above us. From the lower edge of the hatch a corrugated ramp extruded itself to the turf, and Spacedog drove straight up it and into sheer impossibility. El Tigre was right behind him, but the car must have been driving itself, since my brain was frozen in disbelief.

  We came to a halt inside a vast vaulted hanger, full of strange machineries and stranger smells and a couple of smallish spindle-shaped craft that looked like the Air Force's worst nightmares.

  I climbed out of my car to join Spacedog and Stella.

  "This thing is a spaceship! A real UFO! You two aren't from Italy at all! You're aliens!"

  "Verdad, traitorous companero of yore. Now must you the limits of your primitive worldview finally acknowledge. But surely Bandits one and all already knew as much."

  I considered Spacedog's words. "I guess we all did. But we just didn't want to admit it. So long as you were winning races for us, it didn't matter."